


Champagne Supernova

by Zara_Zee



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Addiction recovery, Community: salt_burn_porn, Homophobic Language, M/M, References to Addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 12:47:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20621267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zara_Zee/pseuds/Zara_Zee
Summary: Country music star Jensen Ackles crashed and burned spectacularly at last year’s Grammy’s and now there’s even worse music to face. A spur-of-the-moment decision to walk into Jared Padalecki’s bar has all the hallmarks of another self-destructive catastrophe, but it could turn out to be the best move he’s ever made.





	Champagne Supernova

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Salt-Burn-Porn for Dugindeep's prompt: A star burned out.
> 
> Apparently I can't write porn without a truckload of backstory and angst. I guess I just need to keep practicing. ;)

Jensen hates LA. And he hates the Cadillac Escalade his manager rented for him. He’s only in town for an emergency meeting with his publicist and he’s only on whatever-the-fuck this street is called because he got lost trying to drive back to his hotel. When he sees the red and blue neon signs advertising Budweiser, Coors, and Miller Lite, he decides to pull over, spur of the moment, because what the hell, right? He nearly changes his mind when he sees the name of the bar.

The Happy Moose.

Seriously?

Despite the ridiculous, up-beat name, The Happy Moose looks like an old-school dive bar, with a black-and-white linoleum floor and a long wooden bar lined with red vinyl bar stools.

Jensen hovers in the doorway. Is the place some kind of stupid tourist trap? (Because _seriously_, who calls a _real_ bar The Happy Moose?)

There are no pool tables and there are no juke boxes—thank God for small mercies—but there does appear to be a very well-stocked bar. By the time he’s picked his way across the black-and-white checks to said bar, the sticky squelching of his Berluti leather boots, the low number of patrons, and the hunched set of their shoulders has ruled out _tourist trap_. Jensen revises his opinion and decides that this is the kind of establishment where serious drinkers come to quietly pickle their livers, away from the watchful eye of disapproving families.

Jensen has always done most of his drinking at home. Or at his hotel. Or on the tour bus. Or at album launch parties. Or Awards ceremonies.

Still, it isn’t like he doesn’t fit right in. He slides onto a bar stool with the practiced ease of someone who’s just come home and signals the bartender.

There’s only one and he’s up the other end of the bar pouring a fifth of Jim Beam into the tumbler of a grey-bearded man with a beer belly and a trucker’s cap.

The bartender nods to indicate he’s seen Jensen’s signal, and then he’s standing in front of him a moment later.

Wow. Jensen thinks. Tall.

The bartender’s wearing a black shirt, with the top few buttons undone. Jensen can see wisps of chest hair and a long neck, beaded with sweat. There’s a logo on the shirt’s pocket, a stupidly grinning, bright yellow moose. Jensen snorts and drags his eyes across the bartender’s muscular forearms (he has his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows) and then on up to his slightly crooked nose and welcoming smile, complete with dimples.

There’s a brief flicker of recognition in the man’s eyes and Jensen steels himself, but the only thing the guy asks is what Jensen would like to drink.

Jensen’s eyes skitter across the bottles of bourbon, but that would be a bad idea.

Being here is a bad idea period, but it’s been that kind of day.

That kind of week actually.

Who is he trying to kid? It’s been that kind of _year_.

The bartender is watching him closely. Expectantly. He has nice eyes. Kind. Soulful. And Jensen can’t make up his mind what color they are. Are they brown? Green? Do they have a little blue in them?

“How about a soda?” the bartender says and Jensen realizes that he’s been staring into the guy’s eyes for a socially inappropriate length of time.

“Okay,” he says, even though he really wants a beer. Or something stronger.

But the bartender’s face lights up and he’s scooping ice and filling a tall glass with coke before Jensen can do much more than wonder how to get him to smile again.

“Thanks,” he says and the bartender beams again.

It doesn’t seem to take much to make him happy.

Jensen watches the bartender work; watches his big hands grip bottles and pour drinks; watches him twist and turn on his long, long legs; watches him reach for the top shelf, his shirt riding up and exposing his broad, tanned back; watches him bend to wipe up a spill, his black pants tight across his ass. Jensen glances sometimes at the bottles of bourbon, tequila and scotch, but they look less inviting now than they did earlier.

Time passes. Jensen nurses his coke and wonders what the bartender’s legs would feel like wrapped around his waist.

“Hey,” there’s a man by his side, heavy set with jowls like a bloodhound. His breath reeks of vodka and his lips are curled in a sneer. “Didn’t you used to be Jensen Ackles?”

“Yep,” Jensen says, without heat. He takes a sip of his coke.

The laid back response seems to knock the guy off track and then the bartender derails him completely just by turning up and glowering.

“I have your wife on speed dial, Billy,” he says. “You want me to call her to come pick you up?”

Billy shakes his head and shuffles away.

The bartender meets Jensen’s eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Yep,” Jensen says and he gets that smile again.

“My name’s Jared, by the way, in case you were wondering.”

Jensen raises an eyebrow. “Why would I be wondering?”

Jared puts his elbows on the bar and leans down. “Oh come on,” he says, voice low and sultry, “I saw you checking out my ass.”

Jensen’s smile freezes.

“Ain’t no big deal,” Jared says. He’s calm. Serene.

And Jensen thinks, one day at a time. And he thinks, to thine own self be true; which is sort of how he got himself into the mess that led to today’s meeting in the first place. Could it hurt things any more if he admitted to admiring Jared’s ass?

He licks his lips and looks around. There are now only three other patrons in the bar; Trucker Cap, Billy and a bald old man with a gummy mouth and a red ruddy nose.

“Hey,” Jared says softly, bringing Jensen’s attention swinging back to him.

Jared reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a worn brown leather wallet, which he opens.

“I got this last week,” he says.

He puts a black medallion with a gold phoenix down in front of Jensen.

Jensen turns it over and reads: "Out of the Ashes of Addiction Comes Recovery and Growth". In the center of the medallion is the number 5.

“Fuck,” Jensen says. “And you work in a bar?”

Jared’s smile is dim. “It’s a Narcotics Anonymous medallion. Alcohol was never my poison. I don’t actually like it all that much, to be honest.”

Jensen barks out a laugh. “So five years clean, huh? Congratulations.”

Jared’s smile brightens. “Thanks. How about you?”

Jensen looks at him, hard. His various drunken escapades and his several court-mandated stints in rehab were common tabloid knowledge, but the fact that he’s actually trying to work the program and stay sober this time isn’t.

“I know an addict in recovery when I see one,” Jared says softly. Not pushing.

“Uh,” Jensen rubs a hand across the back of his neck. “We’re only talking months here,” he lifts his coke. “And I was nearly back to square one earlier. So. Thanks for the rescue.”

“You’re welcome,” Jared says, peeking up at Jensen from beneath his eyelashes, floppy hair falling around his face.

The sight robs Jensen of his breath. Fuck, Jared is beautiful. In a totally manly way, but really, the only word that fits is beautiful.

Trucker Cap waves at Jared and Jared smiles apologetically at Jensen and heads to the other end of the bar. Jensen shamelessly ogles his ass the entire way. Jared tops up the guy’s glass and then leans down and talks to him quietly, before making his way back to Jensen.

“Don’t think I couldn’t feel your eyes on my ass just now, Mister,” Jared says coyly.

Jensen can’t help himself. “You wanna feel something more than my eyes on it?”

Jensen basks in Jared’s thousand watt smile.

“All right you bunch of drunken reprobates,” Jared shouts, “Last Orders.”

\--

Jared lives above the bar. Which he co-owns with his buddy, Chad. Chad is an actor. Mostly an out-of-work one, but he’s been in a few shows that Jensen has heard of. He’s the silent partner in the business, and Jared quips that it’s the only time Chad is silent.

They’re on the sofa, which is big, drinking coffee. Jared tells Jensen about moving to LA from Texas to pursue an acting career, which never quite panned out. He tells him about buying the bar with Chad. He has renovation plans for it, but is still saving up for them.

“You gonna change the name when you renovate?” Jensen asks.

Jared’s face falls. “I already changed the name. What’s wrong with The Happy Moose?”

Jensen stares. Swallows. “Uh. Nothing?”

Jared grins. “See? Just like that you’ve made The Moose happy.”

Jensen blinks. “You’re The Moose?”

Jared nods. “Nickname.”

“Why? ‘Cause you’re so tall?”

Jared nods, shrugs. “When the acting didn’t pan out, I was trying to decide what to try next and Chad, he was quoting from a movie, he said, “Just ‘cause you’re hung like a moose doesn’t mean you gotta do porn.”

Jensen’s pulse races. “You’re…hung like a moose?” he says faintly.

Jared turns and leans in close. “Wanna find out?”

And yeah, Jensen really, really does. But first.

He sits back, runs a hand through his hair.

“In the interests of full disclosure,” he says, “the last guy I slept with tried to blackmail me.”

“What the fuck?” Jared’s scowl is epic.

Jensen grimaces. “The country music scene is still pretty homophobic. I wasn’t out. But after that thing at the Grammy’s? When I got completely wasted and embarrassed the fuck out of myself and ended up in rehab again?”

Jared nods and Jensen tries to see it as an upside, that when all your disgraces are front page news, at least it makes explaining things quicker.

“I got some good advice in rehab that time,” he says. “Or maybe I was just ready to hear it. About being true to myself. A lot of the self-medicating and self-destructive behaviour was because I was miserable in my skin. I burned myself out, trying to be something I wasn’t. Someone I wasn’t. So. I was trying to be ‘my authentic self’ Jensen makes finger quotes with an eyeroll. “And it was going alright too, until Michael.”

“I’m so sorry,” Jared says, eyes liquid with sadness, “I completely understand why sex is off the table.”

“Whoa,” Jensen holds up a hand. “Sex is not off the table. I just…I told Michael to go fuck himself and pressed charges and now I’m coming out publicly for damage control purposes. I did an interview. There’s gonna be an article tomorrow. My publicist isn’t happy though. He says there’s no way we can resurrect my career now. He said, and I quote, ‘pissing yourself in public was bad enough, but being a fag is worse’.”

Jared’s eyes narrow. “You know he’s wrong, right? And also a douchebag?”

Jensen nods.

Jared asks him if he’s out to his family and Jensen nods again. He had those conversations a week ago. His parents cried with him, but were surprisingly okay with it. They were more upset about the drinking and the public embarrassments. His siblings said they already knew.

“So,” Jensen says. “I just wanted to warn you that you were walking right into a shitstorm; give you the opportunity to back up, kick me out.”

Jared shuffles a little closer on the sofa. “I didn’t just recognize you from album covers and MTV,” he says. He frowns. “I mean, obviously I recognized you from those too, but more than that…your story…it’s not uncommon. Except for the blackmail part. That’s pretty…yeah… But the rest of it… I recognized _you_, Jensen, as soon as I saw you sitting at my bar.”

It’s the first time Jared has spoken his name and Jensen wants to hear it again. Preferably moaned. He closes the distance between them and looks at Jared searchingly. Jared leans in, his lips tentative at first, and then bolder, his tongue seeking entry.

Jensen doesn’t have a lot of experience kissing men, it’s mostly been hurried blow jobs and quick fucks, but it’s good, he thinks, bringing his hands up to clutch at Jared’s hair.

Jared’s hands move to Jensen’s waist and there’s pulling and pushing and then Jensen’s on Jared’s lap, straddling his thighs, grinding against his groin, and Jared’s hands move to his ass, squeezing, kneading, and Jensen is going to come in his pants like a fourteen year old if they don’t stop this soon.

He pulls away. Jared blinks at him with lust blown eyes.

“Bedroom?” Jensen says.

Jared pushes at him and he stands up. Jared takes his hand and drags him down the hall and into a small room with a very large bed.

“Clothes off,” Jared says, tearing at his own.

Jensen gets with the program, fast, doesn’t look at Jared until he hears a low whistle.

Jared is Greek-God stunning, a sculpture of a man and yeah, Jensen glances down and swallows. Hung like a moose.

“So fucking hot,” Jared says, tone filled with wonder, and then they’re kissing again, hands all over each other, and it’s almost like a fight, the way they knock against each other, pulling, pushing, demanding.

Finally, Jared tackles him to the bed and he’s pinned on his back, Jared’s hands cupping his face, their cocks rubbing together, and it’s _so_ good. But.

Jensen pushes at Jared’s chest and he backs off, looks down quizzically.

“Condoms?” Jensen croaks. “Lube?”

Jared nods, reaches for his bedside drawer. “Top or bottom?”

Jensen’s never bottomed, never trusted someone enough, not when it’s just been a quick fuck, but with Jared he thinks he’d like to try. One day.

“Either,” he says. “Both. But I’ve only ever topped. And you’re hung like a moose.”

“Okay,” Jared says, and squirts lube onto his fingers. He rolls onto his side and reaches back, opening himself up for Jensen.

A moment later, a condom lands on Jensen’s chest and he rolls it on, then slicks himself, and Jared rolls onto his belly, spreads his legs and cants his hips in invitation.

Jensen doesn’t need to be asked twice. He gets on his knees in between Jared’s and lines himself up.

He pauses briefly and then pushes in slowly. Jared is tight, the prep not quite enough, but Jared doesn’t tense up and his breathing stays even and he doesn’t ask Jensen to stop, so Jensen keeps going, one long, inexorable slide, until his balls hit Jared’s ass and then he takes a moment to steady himself.

“Feel so fucking good, Jay,” he says.

Jared squeezes around him and Jensen pulls out slightly and pushes back in.

“Fuck me,” Jared says, so Jensen does, lying down on Jared’s back so that he can nuzzle at his neck while he circles his hips and thrusts with intent, letting the pressure build, slowly and surely. Jared lifts his hips, slides a hand down and begins to stroke himself, loosely, mostly just letting Jensen’s thrusting push him into the tunnel of his hand. His quiet gasps are sexy as hell and Jensen grits his teeth, keeping a tight rein on the orgasm he can feel building.

Jared pumps his hips and lets loose with a long drawn out moan and Jensen loses it, hammering him deep and fast and coming hard with a shout. 

Jared bitches about the wet spot so they curl together, naked, on the same side of the bed. Jared doesn’t open the bar until two in the afternoon and he’s already said that Jensen can spend the day hiding out in his apartment. The paparazzi are unlikely to find him here, if they’re even interested any more in a burned out star.

His phone charger’s back at the hotel, but Jared has a spare one he can borrow. Jensen would let his phone run flat if it wasn’t for his family. If the article tomorrow is bad, he doesn’t want his family to think he’s done something stupid, just because they can’t get hold of him.

Jared has made him the little spoon, his long arms wrapped around Jensen’s torso in a way that feels steadying not smothering and even though sleep is a long time coming, it’s deep and dreamless when it does.

\--

It’s front page news. The headline reads ‘Champagne Supernova’ and they use the picture from the Grammy’s, the one where he’s unconscious on the floor with a bottle of champagne in one hand and a piss stain on one leg. The article, though, for all the tawdry click bait, is surprisingly sympathetic. He and Jared read it together on Jared’s phone, sitting side-by-side in bed and Jensen thinks he might have to send that journalist, Danneel Harris, a nice bouquet of flowers.

He gets a phone call from his publicist who gruffly concedes that he may not be a lost cause after all.

“Told you,” says Jared.

His mom calls. It’s probably his third sober conversation with her in ten years and he wants a drink something fierce afterward, but Jared talks him down and makes him pancakes and Jensen is so glad he’s not in his hotel room alone.

Jared is stupidly sunny and upbeat and when Jensen calls him on it he waggles his eyebrows and tells Jensen he’s a happy moose.

“This,” he waves his phone, “it’s all just noise. You just gotta take it one day at a time and be true to yourself. Rise from the ashes.”

He sidles up to Jensen and slips his arms around his waist. “And don’t forget,” he says, “we made plans for today that involve your gorgeous virgin ass and a very happy moose,” he waggles his eyebrows again. “Gonna make our own supernova.”

Jensen likes the sound of that. He wonders if it’s too soon for a recovering alcoholic to consider investing in a bar.

The End.


End file.
